


Restart

by thomasjeffersonsmacaroni



Series: the prefix re- [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, F/M, M/M, Post-Canon, Short
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-19 22:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 778
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9464171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni/pseuds/thomasjeffersonsmacaroni
Summary: Thomas can't restart.





	

**Author's Note:**

> The final work in this series!

Thomas Jefferson had been taught throughout his entire childhood that tragedy came in threes. And that had proved true to him throughout his later life.

Martha. Lucy. Jane.

But besides that, tragedy came in moments.

Hamilton's kiss. Hamilton's touch. Hamilton's glance.

Hamilton's prominence. Hamilton's fall from grace, that fatal combination of his enemies and his overgrown pride.

Hamilton's death.

Thomas had read the words on his newspaper almost a day ago, but they were still in the process of locking themselves into his brain.

Hamilton  _couldn't_ be dead. He was supposed to be at his desk, tongue sticking out ever so slightly, millions of papers strewn all around his hunched body. He was supposed to be standing in Washington's office, palms slammed on the table, as he defended yet another one of his opinions to a long-annoyed audience. He was supposed to be at some sort of party, arm wrapped around his Eliza's waist, planting a kiss to her temple and then to the foreheads of his children.

He was supposed to be alive.

The image of Thomas's worn enemy was still fresh in his mind, and it came easily when summoned. But, as all memories did, it would fade away with time. The very thought scared him.

_As all memories did..._

Thomas rubbed his shoulder self-consciously, remembering a time when it had been bare. He had started doing that a lot again lately. Every day, every hour, every  _minute,_ a fraction of the scene faded away, but the core would stay with him forever.

But the core of Hamilton was the eye of his hurricane, and to Thomas, that would never be enough.

 

He was blank for a long time. He tried to hide it - after all, Hamilton  _was_ his enemy - and he succeeded for the most part. And where he didn't, it was easy to cover it up with the excuse of mere politeness.

That was acceptable. Loving one's enemy, loving him in a way that far surpassed biblical, was not.

 

Alexander Hamilton had a funeral, a small, private event that was attended only by those closest to him. Obviously, this meant that Thomas Jefferson stayed at home in the White House and drank wine while rereading one of his favorite books.

It was a small act. But it provided him with something akin to comfort. And even thought it was false, and would never replace what he was feeling, it made him feel just that tiniest bit better.

 

Hamilton's wife - no, his  _widow,_ Thomas found it so hard to change that word - was going around. Asking people what they know about him, what they thought about him.

She had papers in her hands, and Thomas knew exactly what they are. And he knew exactly what they _aren’t._

She said she was telling his story. Thomas admired her efforts, her determination, her franticness in scribbling down notes in her little blue notebook. He even sat for an interview or two.

But there was a story that she would never tell, and that was a fact that Thomas would never say. After all, she was trying her hardest.

He couldn't blame her for knowing about only one of her husband's affairs.

 

Thomas would never admit to it, but when he visited New York on breaks, he would sneak off to Hamilton's gravestone. Late at night, when he knew that neither his Eliza nor his Angelica nor his children would come and mourn, he would sit on the slightly raised mound of dirt and stare at the carved piece of marble.

_Alexander Hamilton._

_The corporation of Trinity Church has erected this in testimony of their respect_

_The patriot of incorruptible integrity._

_The soldier of approved valor._

_The statesman of consummate wisdom:_

_Whose talents and virtues will be admired l_ _ong after this marble shall have moldered into dust._

Thomas thought about those words a lot. He didn't know who had written them, but they were beautiful and very, very true.

Yes, Hamilton's talents and virtues were perhaps aimed in the wrong direction. But neither Thomas nor anyone else could be correct in denying that they existed.

Especially not Thomas.

Which was why, when he decided that Monticello's decor was outdated and needed to be redone, he without hesitation bought an exact copy of Giuseppe Ceracchi's bust of Alexander Hamilton. After debating with himself for a long time about where to put it, he placed it opposite his own in the entrance hall. They would be opposed in death, just as they had been in life.

Except for one night, they had always been on opposite sides of the political war.

Always fighting. Never meeting. Painfully, painfully separate.

Forever.


End file.
